SERGEI DOVLATOV
111
I asked if I could speak with Erik Busch.
"He's not here," she almost shouted. "And I'm really getting wor–
ried. He gave me his word he wouldn't be out late. But come over
anyway. We'll get along fine."
The woman spelled out her address in a clear voice and explained
how to get there. The tiny Estonian trolley car rocked and swayed
around the curves. In twenty minutes I was in Kadriorg. I had no trou–
ble finding the log house, half in ruins. The door was opened by a
woman of about fifty, very thin, with pale, bluish hair. The lace on her
lilac peignoir reached all the way down to her golden Arabian slippers.
Her face was heavily powdered, and her cheeks burned with some kind
of chemical glow. She might have been the female lead in a provincial
operetta.
"Erik's home," she said. "Come in."
I had never in my life seen such monstrous disarray. The dining table
was
piled high with dirty dishes. Strips of greenish wallpaper had come
loose and hung down to the floor. A thick layer of newspapers covered
the torn rug. A Siamese cat bounded around the room. Empty bottles
were lined up by the door. A man of about thirty got up from the rav–
aged couch. He had the dark, masculine face of an American movie star.
A
carnation was stuck in the lapel of his good-quality imported jacket.
His
shoes glistened. Against the background of his rubbish-filled house,
Erik
Busch looked like a visitor from outer space. We exchanged greet–
ings.
I felt awkward and uncertain as I explained to him what my prob–
lem
was.
Busch smiled and suddenly began to speak poetically: "Enter, 0
midnight guest! All in our house is yours. And the coffee pot is boiling."
"Take some sweet rolls," interrupted the woman, Galina.
Busch stopped her with a sweeping gesture: "Let chaos reign! There
are worse misfortunes! Here rules only freedom - my motto, my obses–
sion, my ideal!"
I made out as though all this were normal. What else could I do?
Leave the place at one in the morning? Or call an ambulance, maybe?
Anyway, straightforward insanity isn't the worst thing in the world. As
fve gotten older, I've come to regard it as almost normal. While being
aormal
has become somehow unnatural. A normal man had just deserted
_ in a strange city. While an abnormal one was offering me coffee,
;if.,
liielndsh
'ip, and his food. I replied with self-conscious sincerity, "To be
guest is a compliment immense, With all my heart I thank you for
haven, Now I have found a place where I can live in peace.. , ,"
Then we drank coffee and ate rolls with jam, The Siamese cat
;.ljamped on my head. Galina played an Offenbach record. We went to
around two,
